Double Standards
by frosty wonder ice
Summary: Civilized society denies Alphas their advantage of physical strength, making fights for dominance a thing of the past, yet Omegas are left unchecked in their use of manipulative scents. When it comes to Castiel, Dean doesn't know whether he actually likes the man or if he's simply being directed by primal desire.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning**: mentions underage non-con (non-explicit) and it's against our Alpha; Bela Talbot is portrayed negatively but I always strive to avoid character bashing.

Hope you enjoy!

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><p>The old door to Ellen's tavern was heavy, hardened under a layer of slick frost, its frozen handle stealing the last bit of warmth from Dean's palm. Each stiff, red finger ached deeply as he wretched it open, effort due more to the crookedness of its frame than the wet cold that stuck it in place. Immediately, Dean was met with yellowed light, the low rustle of hushed voices, and an escaping gust of hot air that was like a giant puff of bad breath in his face, awash mostly with smells he recognized but a few were new, even unwelcome.<p>

Heads turned his way as he entered, silences occurring in every conversation as the other Weres detected his scent in turn. As always, his Presence was acknowledged by the Beta regulars with slight shuffles or curious glances and, not for the first time, Dean found himself wishing his Alpha stench weren't quite so strong.

But if their noses were good, his was fan-fucking-tastic, and his eyes automatically followed his sniffer's directive to an irritatingly enticing scent, the owner of which sat directly center in the tavern. It was an instinctual draw Dean couldn't stop, but he was careful to school his expression into indifference when his lured gaze was greeted with a quick, flirtatious smile. He should have been able to smell an Omega from outside, especially one so obviously flaunting her Heat. He blamed the cold for dampening his senses—he wouldn't have bothered if he'd been aware of the current clientele.

As it was, he'd already made a grand entrance, his scent having announced him like the blaring horn of royalty, leaving little point in turning tail. Letting the door close with a loud thud behind him, he headed toward the bar, chastising himself for his blunder as he slid onto one of the stools. The first mistake when dealing with Omegas, especially ones in Heat, was making eye contact.

"You've not heard of gloves then?" a dry but familiar voice asked, interrupting Dean's attempts to rub warmth back into his hands, and he looked up into Jo's mocking brown eyes with a small smile.

"Had some mittens, pretty pink things with puffs on the strings and everything, but lost 'em in the snow," he joked, meeting her light scoff with another smile and adding, "The usual," as he tapped twice on the counter. It was sticky and dirty but his hands had met worse so he paid the grime no mind, even grabbing the edge for balance as he leaned back enough to stretch one stiff leg out. An empty glass was placed before him, Jo mid-reach for a bottle of cheap whiskey, when he said, "The battery's fine, just a bad connection. The cables are corroded."

The whiskey retrieval aborted, Jo's demeanor shifted to one between exasperation and annoyance, her head dropping to one side in a huff, eyes accusing.

"Did you break into my car again?" she growled. Adorable, her attempts at being threatening to him.

"Well I can't see the battery if the hood's down," Dean answered, his smile widening at her subsequently pinched expression. He shrugged, then raised his eyebrows and nudged the still empty glass between them.

"I'll come by in the morning with a battery jumper," he continued, rolling in his lips to hide a smirk when she scowled but set to retrieving his alcohol. She was throwing a tantrum now but she'd be pleased when her car was running again. He nodded his thanks as she slid a half-full glass back to him. "That should get it started and I can take it to Bobby's. He'll have a near make or model I can scavenge some same-size cables from."

"And Bobby'll be okay with that?" Jo asked wryly, finally a hint of amusement in her expression.

"Ah, he won't notice," Dean snorted and took a large swallow of amber liquid, fogging a contented breath into the raised glass as the alcohol warmed him. Another quick sip and then he lowered the glass with a smile, more teasing ready for Jo, but a slight shift in the air interrupted his banter. His humor vanished with a sigh, the brief moment of lifted spirits crashing back into weariness.

He'd expected it, of course, but had hoped the undesirable exchange could be delayed for as long as possible. Jo's eyes flitted over his shoulder and, for a moment, her unimpressed stare made him wonder if she's planned to rescue him, if she has his back on this one. But then other patrons were calling for more alcohol, rattling their empty glasses on the counter, and she had to leave him to face the enemy alone, naught but a sympathetic glance to support him.

Dean was quick to pull in both feet against the stool's rungs and tuck in his elbows even as he slumped over the countertop in the most unappealing manner possible—simple body language to give the impression of unfriendliness and help fend off unsolicited advances.

As always, it didn't work as well as he hoped it would.

"Hello there," the Omega purred, tugging a free stool closer to Dean's and sliding onto it, exuding an air of confidence and conceit. She rubbed a hand over her neck in a show of pushing back her long hair but it was obvious she was wafting her scent at him. Dean's eyes closed for a moment, his breath stuttering. She smelled amazing, as all Omegas did, like goddamned freshly baked pie sitting temptingly on an open windowsill. Her Heat was that extra pinch of cinnamon spiciness that made his mouth water and stomach clench.

And damn it if she didn't know the effect she was having on him, how she was pushing him further than any of the Betas around them ever could. As such, it was hard not to miss her smirk—a small thing, but enough to clear the fog in his mind.

"Not interested," he growled, quick to bring the glass of whiskey back to his mouth, both to breathe in the alcohol fumes, cancelling out the Omega's scent, and to make his hand harder to reach for any casual touching. The second mistake when dealing with Omegas was letting them get skin-to-skin contact.

"Don't be like that," she said with an exaggerated pout, and lifted a delicate hand—slowly, as she was aware that Dean was keeping a close watch on her movements from the corner of his eye. When he didn't immediately snarl at her, she ran her fingertips lightly down his bicep. His usual layers of shirts and leather jacket keep either of them from feeling the burn but they both shuddered anyway at the touch, and the Omega scooted closer excitedly.

Dean jerked away, shooting her a scowl, careful to never look above her nose. "Stop it. I said I wasn't interested."

A flash of irritation crossed the Omega's face and she gave a subtle sniff, taking in his scent.

"Like hell you're not," she disagreed quietly, tone harsh but even. Then, her flare of temper seeming to pass quickly, she was back to looking coy, smiling sweetly. "I don't smell a mate on you. How unusual, too." Her hand again began a teasing trace down his arm. "Seems like an Alpha with _your_ Presence would have his pick of the bitches."

It was meant to be a compliment, and somewhere deep inside Dean's instinctual ego did enjoy the stroke, but he was more than instinct. He may not be as smart as Sam, but even he could read between the lines. She wanted to trap him, to make him her dog on a leash, her defender—at least so far until she found one bigger and stronger than him. That was the way Omegas worked, always ready to roll over for the next best Alpha. While Alphas did have a natural leadership to them, their Presence commanding attention, they would always be weak to the mouthwatering scent of an Omega.

Physical strength was an Alpha's greatest advantage over his pack but behaviors like barking out orders and cuffing the ears of any that didn't obey were coming more and more to an end, the rise of the intellectual mind giving way to civilized culture. Hell, they didn't even run in packs anymore, not really. It was a shame how such natural customs were ruined by the advancement, the _betterment_ according to some, of their culture.

Not that Dean agreed with the redneck, radical groups who clung to the past—those that claimed Betas had no right to do anything without an Alpha's order, and that Omegas should be beaten, put in their place through violence, dominated whether they wanted it or not. No, Dean was all for equality amongst their kind. It only irritated him that equality was rapidly becoming a one way street in society's mind. An Alpha claiming to be abused by an Omega was still seen as weak, a nancy-boy, but one cry of wolf from an Omega and the laws came down, hardly any doubt in the minds of a jury. After all, surely a frail little Omega didn't stand a chance against a big bad Alpha.

Funny, how society was willing to regress to such old beliefs when it was on an Omega's behalf.

So Dean didn't answer, didn't let himself growl in approval at the Omega's attentions. Instead, he swallowed the last of his drink in one large gulp and then slammed down the glass on the counter, turning away from the Omega to slide off his stool. He tossed a bill retrieved from his jean's pocket next to the emptied glass and nodded at Jo when their eyes meet across the bar, a silent indication that he'd be back in the morning to help with her car. He ignored the Omega but her scent indicated that she was getting excited, clearly thinking she'd landed a strong Presence for her Heat cycle. His body language should have been clear, he thought, but Omegas only ever saw what they wanted.

With a derisive snort, Dean moved to leave. When he heard the creak of the Omega's stool shifting as she hopped to her feet behind him, he paused, eyes focused on the door as he, without turning around, snarled, "I'm _not_ interested."

He'd only said it loud enough for the Omega to hear, but his scent darkened enough with anger to grab the attention of the entire tavern. There were a few sharp intakes of breath before everyone went silent again, the only thing keeping the air from stilling entirely being the quiet hum of music from the bar's speakers. The Omega's gasp had been the loudest, hers with a touch of fright against the surprise of the others. Typically, Omegas liked dominance displays, it made them _swoon_, but Dean hadn't been showing off, hadn't been boasting his Presence.

Dean had _threatened_.

The heels the Omega wore clicked against the boarded floor of the tavern as she scuttled backwards, a stool clattering loudly to the floor when she bumped it along the way. The rest in the tavern, all Betas, were quick to duck their heads, cautiously watching Dean without really looking at him, ready to read his cues and get out of his way if necessary. Well, all of them except Jo; Dean could feel her eyes burning into his back, though he knew she was probably rigid and shaking, forcing herself to stare at him, always one to fight instincts as much as he did.

Giving another snort, Dean again started toward the door, the Betas who'd been chatting near it hurriedly moving to make a clear path.

Just as he pushed it open, ready to step into the cold, the Omega shakily and weakly called after him, "Mi-misogynistic pig!" but all it took was one glare over his shoulder and she was again cowering against the bar.

The door closed with another heavy thud behind him.

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><p>Dean had been barely fourteen when he first faced a sexually mature Omega. He had just started his human puberty, was far from his wolf one, but even then he could smell the Omega better than any of his classmates.<p>

Over the centuries, birthrates had risen along with advancements in technology. Betas had always been the majority gender, with Alphas being rare, Omegas more so. However, the days of packs wandering the continents had long since passed. No longer was their species simply small clusters of nomadic Weres relying on one or two Alphas to lead the way. There were towns now—_cities_. It was only natural that changes in attitude would occur as time progressed.

It had become a Beta's world. As such, Dean had had little contact with the either polar gender beyond that of his own family. His father hadn't prepared him, hadn't thought to warn him. Or—maybe John had, but had then dismissed the notion and decided to let Dean learn through experience, however harsh that road could be. John was of a no-nonsense breed and, from what he could remember of her, Dean's mother had been tough as nails. There were reasons Alphas were drawn to other Alphas; such wolves were not often branded _nurturing_.

And thus, at fourteen, that first whiff Dean caught of the mature Omega had him so dizzy he'd almost fallen out of his desk—and she wasn't even in his classroom yet. Later, he would come to understand that she'd been in her Heat, that _that_ had caused the haze in his pre-pubescent Were mind. At the time, all he knew was that she smelled absolutely marvelous and that his body was becoming unnaturally warm. He'd never gotten a boner in the middle of class before, one of many firsts that day.

Dean had been accustomed to getting his way. As an Alpha, he was bigger than the rest of his age group and his strong Presence called on their instincts. Technology may have advanced but their bodies still intuitively followed the ways of old. His classmates had been more than happy to fall in line behind him. It was natural, they were _drawn_ to him. He was born to lead, a long lost role, and if it made him a bit pompous—well, what Alpha wasn't?

But when Ms. Talbot had stepped into his homeroom, the new substitute for their pupped teacher, everything Dean thought he knew about his place amongst his peers felt like nothing more than chasing after his own tail. Her eyes had zeroed in on him without even a glance at the other students and she'd smiled in such a way that had Dean's already cloudy mind fogging even further. He had smiled back, dreamily, confidently, _naively_, and was lost.

He was just a kid human then, a mere pup of a wolf. Ms. Talbot hadn't been much older than him by years, though considerably older by maturity. She was merely twenty, the age most Omegas began their puberty, Alphas typically starting a little later around 23. Though Dean never knew it, Bela Talbot had started her Heats early, at a tender age of 16. If having to fend off aggressive advances at such a young age had warped her at all, she was too strong of character to show it. At least not to any prying eyes.

All Dean remembered about their first encounter alone was having his vision go white and his knees buckling under him. He'd been held after his physical education class, asked by Coach Roach to stack the jumpers; he was the strongest, after all. He had taken his time doing the chore, not eager to continue to his next class of Literature, but when he'd finally stepped into the locker room, the wave of tantalizing scent that had slammed into him was able to knock him off his feet as well as any solid wall.

It had all happened so fast, _too_ fast. The next moment he was staring blearily up at the ceiling, body feeling oddly lethargic and heavy. His head was spinning, vision swimming. He struggled to sit up, only to belatedly realize he was naked from the waist down, jeans a restrictive clump around his ankles. He blinked at his own oddly wet and tender cock, utterly confused. It had taken the noise of shuffling to alert him to another person in the room—a shock, because as an Alpha he had a great sense of smell and should have known someone was there. But there'd been something wrong with his nose; it had stung, _burned_, like he'd smelled too much of too sharp an odor.

As it turned out, it had only been Ms. Talbot standing nearby, someone who shouldn't have been a threat. She had showered at some point, her wet hair tied up in a towel, and she was just beginning to adjust her skirt when she noticed Dean staring in wonder at her. He had never admitted it to anyone, even strictly denied it to himself, but the wicked smirk she'd given him then had shot a bolt of fear through him faster than any Alpha's snarl ever had—or ever _would_.

"You know why I like Alphas your age, Dean?" Ms. Talbot had asked, smoothly walking over to grasp his chin, forcing him to look at her even as he tried to draw away. He was Alpha strong, and yet had felt so disoriented and dizzy in the face of her burning scent. His struggles seemed to have pleased her, for her smirk widened before she'd continued, "You're too young to knot but just old enough that it's still fun. Such a good boy."

With that, she had kissed his forehead and ruffled his hair before letting her own loose of the towel, dropping the damp article over his face. He'd been so dull of sense that it had taken him a moment to think to pull it away. Ms. Talbot had made it to the door by then, but she paused to give him a wink over her shoulder, and had said, "Let's do this again sometime, hm?" before slipping out, leaving him there, half-naked and bewildered.

It was then that Dean began to understand the danger of an Alpha's greatest weakness.

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><p>It was a bad set of memories, Ms. Talbot's short time at his school. She had managed to corner him three more times in the month that she substituted, though none of those times were nearly as severe as the first without her Heat to completely confuse him. Still, her mature scent alone was enough to make him unwillingly compliant, but he was at least able to keep a few patchy recollections of their encounters, though he did his best to shove the memories away, to pretend nothing happened.<p>

His mood, however, had soured drastically, and soon even his knuckleheaded friends had noticed. His closest ones had braved his surliness, had tentatively asked for the reason behind his recent disposition, and he was young enough, foolish enough, to confide in them. To his pained surprise, rather than be appalled by Ms. Talbot's advances, Dean's friends had been ecstatic, clapping him on the back and giving cheers. _Awesome_, they had called it, and praised Dean as an _Alpha's_ Alpha—not even mature and already bagging chicks, Omegas even! What could he possibly have to be upset about?

Later, with a different set of friends, at an older age, Dean had jokingly brought up the possibility of Omegas raping Alphas, just to scent the winds of the new group's opinions. To his dismay, he had met similar reactions. What a good laugh they'd all had. It was _impossible_, the Betas had declared, because Alphas _always_ wanted it, were _always_ hot for it. Alphas could barely keep it in their pants as it was, much less when they smelled a nearby Omega. The notion that an Alpha _wouldn't_ want to claim, mate, _fuck_ was completely ludicrous.

Dean had laughed with them, played along, made self-deprecating jokes about his gender. It was only when he'd noticed his dorky little brother standing just outside his bedroom door, staring at him in puppy-eyed concern, that he realized someone had detected the nervousness in his jokes. That someone _questioned_ his bravado. Embarrassed, Dean had been quick to slam the door in his brother's face—go find your own friends, Sammy!

It was the last time Dean ever tried to broach the subject.

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><p>It only felt like a bump against the cold metal of the car's engine but a sharp pain shot up Dean's hand anyway. He cursed, jerking away from the vehicle to examine the injury. It was small, the size of a pencil tip on the second knuckle of his index, but it <em>stung<em>, and the blood flowed freely, in spite of the purplish tint to his skin that indicated there was little circulation. He huffed an annoyed breath, mentally berating himself for not towing the car into the moderately warmer shop, having thought doing so a waste of time due to the quick nature of the required maintenance. The pain dulled to a throb and, irritated, Dean wondered how he could feel it at all when he couldn't feel anything else.

He had to twist awkwardly to dig a wad of tissues from his pocket, being that his non-bleeding hand was on the opposite side of where they were stuffed in his coat, but he figured snot-soaked Kleenex was better than a stiff, grease-covered rag. Once retrieved, he gave his raw and runny nose another wipe before dabbing up the blood on his hand. Amazing that such a little wound could gush so much red, yet he could barely smell the blood, what with the winter cold that had taken up residence in his lungs. As if a nasty cough and aching chest weren't enough, his nose was beyond clogged and gooey. It was disconcerting to have his sense of smell so crippled. He, who had a nose better than any, now had to practically bury his face in a scent just to get a good sniff.

Abruptly deciding that he could finish changing spark plugs _after_ lunch, Dean stuffed the dirtied tissue back into a pocket and wound through snow-covered junk piles toward Bobby's house, eyeing the small nick in his finger as he went. The blood had stopped dripping but the skin wasn't stitching together yet, the healing process slowed by the cold. Feeling another sneeze coming on, Dean was tempted to wolf out and find a nice fireplace to curl in front of. He always healed faster as a wolf, both from disease and injury.

The kitchen was empty when he clambered through the back door, tracking in dirty snow as he did. A small space heater hummed near the opposite wall, only giving out enough heat to warm the room a few degrees higher than the outside temperature, but there was no wind and that made all the difference—at least for the first few minutes, and then Dean clomped into Bobby's living-room-turned-library to start some logs burning in the fireplace. As the fire grew, his hands flexed a short distance from its small flames to absorb heat, he again considered turning wolf and napping away his afternoon, job be damned.

Before he could fully convince himself it was a good idea, that Bobby's temper wasn't _that_ terrifying, a buzzing rattled through the book-filled halls. He groaned.

Normally he would ignore the caller. It wasn't technically his house, no matter he'd spent a good deal of his life in it, and anything to do with the salvage yard—inquiries, complaints, demands—were supposed to be made at the little tin shack that posed as Bobby's office. However, Bobby's latest visitor apparently did not understand that the door buzzer merely need but one or two pushes, _not_ to be held continuously, and it took less than five seconds for the noise to grate on Dean's nerves. He stomped to the front door, yanking it open with a stuffy snarl that was cut off by a hack as he accidentally snorted a ball of snot.

Immediately, he was pinned by an intense stare. Quickly, his shoulders stiffened in automatic response, his back straightening to make himself look bigger, his teeth sharpening threateningly, faster than his lips could draw back—because, _fuck_, this was another Alpha that was _fucking_ _challenging_ _him_ at the mouth of his own den, what the _fuck!_—but then, in the next breath, the other's head swiftly tilted down, stare dropping from Dean's eyes to his toes in a gesture of submission.

Dean was slow to lower his hackles, adrenaline that had instantly pumped at the possibility of a fight still swimming in each heartbeat, but he forced himself to relax enough to no longer loom aggressively over the man on his—on _Bobby's_—doorstep. He was secretly rather proud he could pull off a Presence when impaired by fevered exhaustion.

_Not an Alpha, not an Alpha_, he repeated to himself, mentally helping to calm his physical response. He licked at the blood pooling along the crease of his mouth, his teeth having cut several small tears, and warily surveyed the bulky form of the unfamiliar Beta.

_Bundled_, was Dean's first thought, because there were so many layers covering the guy, the only show of skin being an oval around his eyes. A smashed, floppy brown hat covered his head with a red scarf haphazardly wrapped around the lower half of his face. He looked to have two, if not three, coats on, the collars and hoods tangled with the scarf in a way that had to be uncomfortable. The suit pants were stretched over what appeared to be thick legs but a peeking bit of green plaid fabric under the pant seams over each boot indicated that the hulk was more from additional layers rather than build of body. Absolutely nothing matched.

Dean scoffed inwardly. It was cold, but not _that_ cold.

The man's finger still hovered over the buzzer. Dean gave it a sharp, annoyed look, but rather than hurriedly returning the hand to his side, the man instead hesitated for a moment and then once more _pushed the buzzer_.

"Wha'dya _want?_" Dean barked, hating how raspy he sounded, how _weak_. Even so, even with his nose Rudolph red, his cheeks equally hot, he managed a decent enough glower to intimidate the other Were into halting, the buzzing cutting off instantly. Once more, his teeth were beginning to sharpen in response to his anger and they again tore at his lips as he snarled, "_Jesus!_ I'm standing _right here!_ The _fuck_, man?"

The multi-layered Were briefly looked up—and in that short time the gaze was as every bit intense and firm as before, not the slightest bit of fear or deference in the man's eyes, and Dean could feel the little hairs on his neck starting to rise—but then the guy looked away, over Dean's shoulder into the house beyond. In a very matter-of-fact, muffled rumble he said, "Yes, but I am looking for a Bobby Singer, whom I don't believe you are."

Dean glared through narrowed eyes, but he was starting to become dizzy, a headache beginning behind his eyes, and he didn't have the patience for this sort of thing on a good day, much less a bad one. He growled as the man's hand again drifted toward the buzzer and slammed his own palm over the offensive button before it could be pressed.

The man flinched at the sudden movement but instead of looking surprised, he, of all things, appeared miffed, eyebrows drawn tight, eyes squinty, as though _Dean_ was the one being difficult.

"Bobby's not here," Dean snarled, fingernails morphing into claws and digging into the wood around the buzzer. "So _scram_."

Even the hair on Dean's head was standing on end by then and he knew he had to make quite the sight, what with being in full threat mode without going entirely wolf—hackles up, teeth sharp, claws out, shoulders again stiff and broad—while at the same time being completely sick off his ass—a runny and red nose, watery eyes, flushed cheeks, sounding like a dying frog—but finally, _finally_, the other Were seemed unnerved. He took a quick step back, head again tilting down in submission even as he kept a watchful eye, careful to never look higher than Dean's chest. He was quick to turn sideways to Dean, instinctively positioning himself in a way to flee should the need arise.

And yet, even looking as cautious as the guy did, even knowing full well Dean's opinion on the matter, he still gained confidence from somewhere to determinedly start, "I have business with Bobby Sing—"

"_Leave!_" Dean roared, and his voice cracked embarrassingly on the word but it didn't matter because the Beta yelped and scrambled to escape as Dean heaved forward with threatening intent, clawed hand swiping dangerously close the man's head. If they were in wolf form, Dean would have snapped at the other's tail. As it was, he settled for giving chase for a few strides, just close enough on the Beta's heels to put the fear of God in the him, to let him know that Dean could easily catch him if he wanted to, sick or not.

But Dean didn't want to catch him, he only wanted the guy to_ go_, and he abruptly stopped, snuffling in satisfaction when the other Were kept running, eventually disappearing around a car pile. He hated relying on his sight rather than his nose—not nearly as dependable—so he waited a minute or two, eyes focused where the man had fled, before he was convinced he was alone at last.

Whatever source he'd pulled strength from had apparently depleted at the burst of activity, leaving him feeling even more drained than before as he returned to the house. He practically had to drag himself through the front door, using his body to slam it closed by falling back against it. He slouched in place for a moment as he waiting for the dizziness to pass, huffing and puffing and half-expecting to hear the annoying buzzer at any moment. Much to his relief, it never came, and after a while he pushed himself away from the door and trudged to the living room.

One glance at the warm fire now steadily burning in the hearth and he decided that it was, in fact, worth Bobby's yapping to shirk work for a nap. His clothes ended up in a heap over one of the couches and then he was cracking his way through a full transformation, breath wheezing out of him at the effort it took.

The rug was no doubt full of dust and dirt but it was comfortable enough and his nose was too stuffed with mucous to smell anything anyway. He lay splayed on his side, belly exposed to the heat, and had to part his lips and suck air through his teeth to breathe. There was a persistent itch behind his ear and, _God_, he wanted to scratch it, but it would take so much energy that he just didn't have right then. All he could do was simply give quiet whine. A small, repressed part of him wished he had someone around to scratch it for him.

And so, with unwanted feelings of loneliness making his chest ache worse than his cold, Dean fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Don't be mad but I kinda forgot I posted this story… Don't be mad, I said!

Some changes and additions were made to the first chapter. I hope this is still engaging to those initially interested.

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><p>The sun was sinking into the horizon by the time Dean woke, dim reddish orange light filtering through dusty windows and casting long shadows about the room. Evidently his short nap had become a deep slumber, yet the fire that should have long since died still crackled heartily. Dean blinked sleepy eyes at the flames, bemused. Bobby must have returned home at some point and added more logs to it but he didn't remember hearing anyone come in—an unsettling realization, that he'd been that deadened to the world, as if the loss of his nose wasn't bad enough.<p>

With a great amount of effort, he hefted to his paws to put a little distance between himself and the now uncomfortable heat, uncaring of the saliva that dripped to the floor as his mouth opened in a wide pant. An ex-girlfriend or five would have had his tail in chew for such slovenly behavior, but Bobby was no Martha Stewart. Hell, if anything, the spit would give the old junker's floors a nice shine.

Perhaps a nap hadn't been a good idea. He felt no better after than he had before. In fact, he felt worse, all creaky-boned and achy-muscled when he took a moment to stretch. A noise from the kitchen made him tense, alarmed, but he then recognized the sounds of Bobby milling about. Huffing a sigh, Dean trudged to the open doorway, claws clicking with each slow step. His eyes twitched against the kitchen's artificial yellow light and he squinted as he spotted his pot-bellied godfather by the refrigerator.

"'Bout time you got up," Bobby groused, grabbing two beers and setting one on the counter before popping the top of the other. He faced Dean after a quick gulp, taking in Dean's bedraggled appearance, and concern grew in his eyes even as he gruffly asked, "Well? You plannin' to get dressed, Sleeping Beauty? Or are you just gonna be a lazy fleabag all night, too?"

Dean meant to growl at him, a bratty reply to the sarcasm, but _whuff_ed like a newborn pup instead. Bobby's eyebrows took a dive, concern amending to full-blown worry, and Dean looked away in embarrassment, only mollified by the knowledge that at least this was _Bobby_ he was being so weak in front of and not his real father.

"Yeah, I thought so," Bobby mumbled. He rubbed his hairy chin thoughtfully as he gave Dean another calculating lookover, scoffing after a moment and shaking his head. "I didn't think fools could get sick, 'specially you Winchester ones, but you've gone and caught a bad case of it, haven't you?"

Dean dropped back onto his haunches and settled for a slight snarl of the lip to convey his irritation.

"Well stay the hell away from me. If an Alpha can get it, I sure as hell don't want it," Bobby warned. Beer bottle still in hand, he dismissed Dean with a wave, attitude indifferent even as the worry was clear in the tense lines of his body. "Go on. Go back to sleep. Don't look at me like that, _pup_. You're not of any use to anyone 'til you've slept it off. I don't need you scratchin' the floors with those ridiculous claws of yours in the meantime."

The floor was already covered in scratches. Even if it wasn't, the linoleum was starting to peel at the edges so it was hardly of value, but Dean retreated as ordered, ignoring the feel of Bobby's scrutinization as he dragged himself out of the kitchen. He gave the fireplace a wide berth, his thick winter coat more than good enough now that the air was warmed, and chose instead to settle against the outermost wall, enjoying the cool press of it against his side.

Briefly, he recalled the Beta who'd been looking for Bobby, and he wondered if he ought shift and relay the encounter. However, the mere mention of more rest had an unsatisfied exhaustion tugging at his consciousness, as though he hadn't just woken, and he was asleep before his head hits his paws, the thought forgotten.

* * *

><p>A nose rooted around in the fur at Dean's neck, like a pig snout after truffles, and it took Dean a few seconds to realize that he wasn't dreaming, that there really was an unknown sniffer, and subsequently unknown <em>teeth<em>, at his throat. He jolted awake in a panic, snarling an attack as he whirled on the daring stranger, his barely awake rationality swiftly disappearing under a surge of defensive instinct. The other wolf reflexively snarled back—equally as startled by Dean's sudden movement as Dean had been at the obtrusive sniffing—and retaliated just as violently. Jaws snapped and claws ripped between them in the breath that it took for them to separate and size-up their opponent.

Dean attempted to plant his feet, make his stance imposing, but instead found himself feebly staggering, the world around him spinning and threatening to tip him on his side. His heavy, wheezy pants were obvious signs of weakness but the other Were didn't take the easy opening to attack and instead seemed wary. Dean growled a warning all the same, trying to focus on the hulking form before him, but the headache that burned behind his eyes had him seeing through fog. There was something about the fuzzy double-image that he recognized but he couldn't quite put a claw on what it was.

The sound of feet rushing down the stairs interrupted Dean's confusion and a second later Bobby burst into the room, eyes wide and hands wrapped tightly around a pointed shotgun. It took him merely one out of breath assessment of the situation for the panicked fright on his face to dissolve into exasperated anger and he was quick to lift the gun's barrel away from the two wolves.

"_Damn_ it, Sam! I told you to leave Dean alone!" Bobby snapped at the large wolf, and recognition abruptly clicked in Dean's mind—because, yeah, that huge fur ball was his baby brother, wasn't it? But he couldn't smell Sam, something that made his instinct cautious even though his eyes told him the shaggy wolf was more than familiar.

Without completely dropping his guard, still wary of further attack from Dean, Sam whined softly, head and ears drooping under the force of the Bobby's glare. The man may have been a Beta, but he'd put Dean and Sam in their places more than enough times as pups for their respect to carry into adulthood.

"You tryin' to give me a heart attack?" Bobby accused, making Sam wilt even more. "Didn't I say _not_ to go pokin' at him? That moron can't even smell his own _ass_ right now!"

The crunch and crack of Sam shifting back to human drowned out Dean's insulted _whumpf_. His nose wasn't working but that didn't mean his ears weren't. Except—maybe they weren't, because when had Sam arrived?

"I called to him several times but he didn't answer," Sam justified, and even in human form he looked like a kicked pup, all worry lines and frowns, simultaneously ashamed and fretful but, as always, defensive of his actions. He threw Dean an unsure glance and then turned his back in a display of trust as he retrieved his clothes.

Dean let out a puff of a sigh, accepting the truce, and dropped to his stomach, resting his throbbing head on his paws.

"You two giant idjits! Look at this mess!" Bobby growled, indicating the new gouges in the wood, the tears in the rug, the displaced furniture—typical byproducts of even a brief tussle between Alphas. Sam muttered an apology but Dean simply turned an uncaring, weary gaze on his godfather. Rather than be angered by the insolence, Bobby took one look at him and deflated, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and gruffing, "Dean, get up stairs and get in a bed. You'll not get any better mopin' down here like a _dog_."

The blurry doorway behind Bobby received a disdainful look, the normally standard task of climbing stairs suddenly seeming daunting, but Sam was observing with those pitying eyes of his, even if he was pretending not to. Dean lurched to his feet, keeping as dignified as possible as he swayed under another head-throbbing wave of dizziness, and forced himself to move. Each step ached in his joints and muscles, into the core of his very _bones_, tail uselessly dragging the floor behind him, but he uttered not one whimper under the watchful eyes of his godfather and brother.

As he made his slow exit, he heard Bobby mutter, "Clean up this mess then get the books you need and get out before you catch what he has. I'm not about to play nursemaid to both you lugheads," and it made him snort, humored, because maybe he was a little delirious but Bobby's lumpy form in a nurse uniform was a funny, if repelling, image. Ah, delirium; it usually only reared its head when he was drunk.

He was already out of breath by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. He paused there, panting, and was tempted to drop for another nap, but then he caught Bobby glancing back at him, every bit as worried as Sam, and that was enough to encourage him to paw the first step. It was a tedious climb, probably took every bit as long as it felt, and his tongue may have accidentally licked the floor a few times as his head drooped—but he was a big boy and he didn't need any help making it to the top and that was what mattered.

Dean didn't really remember walking from the stairs to the nearest bedroom but he did remember thanking the gods that Bobby's beds were low.

* * *

><p>At one point, he was woken by a rustling at the door. He simply rumbled a warning growl, head and eyelids too heavy to lift up and see who was bothering him, but then a voice murmured, "I know. Just let him get some sleep," and the rustling went away. Dean would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't already falling asleep again.<p>

Stupid Sammy.

* * *

><p>A bark jerked Dean from dreamland. It was followed by shouting that started off loud and angry but abruptly cut off a second later, only a brief pause before the voice continued at an agitated hush.<p>

Dean snuffled and shook the last of his sleep from his mind, understanding that whoever was making noise below was apparently trying to keep from waking him. _Too late_, he thought with a mild growl, rising to his paws to stretch away the stiffness in his limbs. He still felt achy, his nose was still stuffed, but his vision was clearer, his head not as heavy. With sunlight happily beaming through the windows, he figured a night of deep sleep had done him some good after all.

Voices continued floating up the stairs in a quieted argument. He recognized one as coming from a frustrated Bobby but the other was only a mild rumble that lacked the same irritation. Feeling up to it, Dean eased off the bed and carefully shifted back to human, grunting as the soreness in his muscles lingered. Scratching a whiskered chin, he glanced around for the clothes he expected would be there. Bobby liked to play at being hardhearted but Dean knew better; he smirked when he saw a set waiting on a nearby chair.

A little while later, clothed and moderately presentable, Dean stood at the top of the stairs, wearily eyeing the narrow decline. He felt better, but he didn't feel great. The stairs, he imagined, were likely to be a slowly performed task once more. Indeed, his first impatient step down proved that his balance was not quite restored in his two-legged form, and he wavered for a moment before descending more cautiously.

Dean absentmindedly eavesdropped on the unrelenting argument being had in the kitchen. His slower pace kept the creaks of the old wooden stairs quiet, allowing him to listen without immediately alerting Bobby or the other Were. Not that he expected to hear anything of importance. He assumed their lows tones were simply because they thought him still fast asleep, and he knew they would smell or feel him soon enough, so it didn't occur to him that he was possibly hearing something he wasn't supposed to.

"That bastard's lying!" Bobby was snarling, volume controlled but voice rough.

"The exact nature of your understanding with Mr. Crowley was not discussed with me," came the almost monotonous and infuriatingly calm response. The voice was vaguely familiar, but Dean's mind was too busy racing at the mention of _Crowley_ to ponder it. "Therefore, it is not currently my concern. If you have complaints, please take them up with him. I am merely here to accept payment for you debt."

Dean froze in place, just at the bottom of the stairs. His fingers automatically clawed, cutting into the soft wood of the banister that he'd been holding for balance.

No, surely Bobby _hadn't_…

"I'm telling you I've _already_ paid!" Bobby snapped, confirming Dean's fears. "He's changing the terms of the contract! And if he thinks sending _you_ is gonna trick me into—"

Bobby cut off in a hissed gasp, the sniffing pause between him and the other Were a tell-tale sign that Dean was caught out. They had no doubt sensed the angry flare in his Presence. Sure enough, a clatter sounded, followed by hurried steps, and then Bobby appeared in the kitchen doorway, eyes instantly pinning Dean with an accusing glower. Dean firmly met and held his gaze for a long, tense moment, mind racing with so many heated words that he couldn't decide which ones to use. Before he could speak, the accusation in Bobby's expression slipped to guilty defeat—Dean wasn't the only one who'd been caught out.

Bobby turned back into the kitchen, shame in his countenance now, and growled lowly to the unknown Were, "This conversation's over. We're done here."

"Mr. Singer, I have been advised not to—"

"Don't _Mr. Singer_ me!"

Dean felt a push of Bobby's Presence—nothing compared to him or Sam, nowhere near his father, but strong for a Beta.

"Are you a bulldog or a _wolf?_" Bobby snarled. "I said _we're_ _done_. Now get your teeth outta it and git out!"

Even with Bobby's Presence at full intimidation, the intruding Were seemed unwilling to leave, as Dean heard no movement to indicate the man was yielding. It was that insolent stubbornness that helped Dean match a face to the voice. What a determined little shit, he decided with a scoff. Although, if Crowley was involved, it was no wonder the man had been so insistent on seeing Bobby—no wonder he didn't want to return empty-handed.

Only after Bobby's threatening growls grew to thunderous volume did Dean finally hear the other Beta begin shuffling papers together and gathering his things. Dean didn't move from where he waited at the bottom of the stairs, but he bristled as the sensed the man drawing closer. It bothered that he could hear the strange Were but not smell him. In his wariness, he must have unconsciously pushed out his Presence as a warning, for the Beta hesitated, stopping just at the threshold between kitchen and hallway, just out of Dean's sight.

"Aw, he ain't gonna jump ya," Bobby snorted, tone mocking. "You got nothing to worry about, princess. Now _git_."

Dean should have known what was coming, expected it even, having already encountered the guy. However, when the Beta stepped out of the kitchen at last, again immediately meeting his eyes with that Alpha-like stare, he found himself automatically tensing, hackles rising. His chest vibrated with a low growl, not threatening so much, just an assertion that he may be sick but he wasn't _weak_.

Instead of catching the hint and looking away, the guy's stare _intensified_. There were several feet between them, but Dean swore he saw the Beta's pupils dilate, the many layers the man wore rising and falling quickly as though his chest was heaving underneath them. An answering thrum echoed in Dean's own veins, because suddenly the Beta stare wasn't a challenge, it was an _invitation_, but _why_ he would—

A loud _slam_ made them both jump, the trance breaking between them. The Beta immediately grimaced, as if embarrassed, and then hunched his shoulder defensively and hurried to the front door, passing Dean with his head down. Dean kept a sharp eye on him, watching as he all but dashed outside, and tried to sniff at the air that wafted in his wake but got nothing more than a snort of snot. He was oddly daring for a Beta, leaving Dean a little off balance, but a moment later Dean shook off the confusion and continued on to the kitchen.

Bobby was clattering about, having started a pot of something on the stove. Dean suspected it was an herbal soup, the kind Bobby had always made when either he or Sam got sick as pups, but he wasn't too concerned with it at the moment. Bobby took one glance at his pinched expression and turned away with an annoyed sigh.

"Don't even start," his godfather warned.

"Jesus _Christ_, Bobby—"

"I _said_, don't start!" Bobby snarled over his shoulder.

"Oh I'm gonna start!" Dean challenged, striding right up to the Beta's side.

For a brief moment, Bobby appeared wary, instinctively shifting away from Dean's glare, but then he twitched, as if shaking off the urge to acquiesce, and elbowed at Dean's side, moving the Alpha out of his way so he could cook.

"There's no point to arguin' it _now_," he said, sounding tired. "What's done is done. It's my business, so stay out of it."

Dean groaned, his intimidation having failed, and leaned back against the counter with a huff. "Why'd you do it in the first place? Making a deal with Crowley—_hell_, you might as well be selling your _soul_ to the bastard!"

"Don't you think I already know that, _pup?_"

"Then _why?_"

"'Cause I needed the money, that's why!" Bobby snapped, sloshing soup from the pot when he stirred too harshly. Seeing that Dean was about to comment, he cut in, "It ain't your business _why_. I've got a handle on it anyway."

"A handle on it?" Dean asked incredulously, expression one of doubtful defiance. He gestured toward the doorway. "That was one of Crowley's debt collectors. But you've _got a handle on it_."

"That's right, I _do_," Bobby asserted with a growl.

"Obviously you don't or he wouldn't have been here!"

"Aw that pup was just yammerin' about _fine print_," Bobby snorted. His tone soured further as he muttered, "I was about to _fine print_ my boot up his ass."

Rubbing his hands over his face, Dean let out a deep sigh. "_Bobby_…"

"I said I've got a handle on it, Dean. There's no reason your fluffy hide needs to get involved. Now sit down before you wear yourself out. Soup's almost ready."

Dean considered pursuing the issue, wanting to get to the bottom of it—Bobby's problems were _his_ problems. The old Beta had practically raised him and Sam after their mother died, was certainly there for them more than their real father ever was. Dean _owed_ it to the man to help out with any trouble he was having. But Bobby was clearly not willing to open up about it, and already Dean's headache from the day before was making a nasty comeback.

With one last sigh, he pushed away from the counter and obediently sat at the table.

"Man, that dude's persistent, though," Dean grumbled, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before slumping in the chair with a huff. "He came by yesterday, too."

Bobby snorted derisively as he turned off the stovetop and opened a cabinet to retrieve a chipped bowl. "Well he won't be back for a couple weeks, at the _least_."

"Why do you say that?"

Hands halting their movement with a jerk, Bobby looked back at Dean in surprise. "You didn't _smell_ it on him? How close he is?"

"I can't even smell my own ass right now," Dean grumbled, throwing Bobby's own words back at him with a scowl.

He studied Dean worriedly. "Maybe I should take you to the hospital."

Dean glared harder.

"Well, in any case," Bobby continued with a sigh of his own, "let's get something warm in you first and we'll go from there."

Headache now a pulsing reminder of why he shouldn't have bothered getting out of bed, Dean simply rocked forward to slump over the table with a pained groan.

* * *

><p>Bobby didn't drive Dean to the hospital two towns over, for which Dean was rather grateful, but he did ring the local doctor for a house call when the fever got high enough that the Alpha began hallucinating. Bobby had never seen it so bad, or so he told Sam over the phone, shouting that no, <em>damn it<em>, Sam had better _stay the hell away!_ That warning was the last real sentence Dean recalled hearing. The rest of the week passed in a fuzzy haze of coughing, retching, and generally miserable achiness.

He started to get better toward the end of the week; he could at least _remember_ things from the few times he was conscious. Specifically, he remembered a large hand roughly petting over his scruff, giving his shaggy neck a light shake—but when had he shifted back?—and his father's deep voice saying, "Come on, pup. Alpha up." John's quiet tone hadn't been disappointed or even chastising, simply concerned, but Dean was mortified and ashamed all the same. Winchesters weren't supposed to succumb to things like _colds_.

It was midweek the second week when he truly woke up for the first time, groggy, dry-mouthed and with a sore throat that felt like it was swollen shut. The room was warm, an electric space heater buzzing away in a corner, but only moderately lit due to the curtains being drawn over the windows. Still, he could hear birds chirping and see the frame of sunlight around the edges of the curtains, so he knew it had to be daytime.

"You feelin' any better?"

Dean startled as much as his tired body allowed, his neck stiff and protesting as he swiveled it to look in Bobby's direction. His godfather sat near the bed, book open on his lap, lamp dimly glowing over one shoulder. Dean just blinked at him.

With a heavy sigh, Bobby lurched to his feet, closing the book and setting it in his seat before moving to the head of the bed so Dean didn't have to strain in order to see him.

"It's just the flu," he said, as though Dean hadn't already managed to make that deduction. "Half the town's bedridden with it, Doc says. Said you're one of the worst cases yet, though." He paused then, searching Dean's watery eyes, a cautious look in his own. After another second of hesitation, he added, "She said you need a mate—"

Dean gargled a growl, dropping his head back to his paws and pointedly looking at the wall, ears flattened back against his head in displeasure.

"Don't get all huffy with _me_," Bobby ordered in mild irritation. "I ain't sayin' it's as important as everyone's claiming. I mean, _hell_, Karen's been…" The irritation disappeared in a swallow as Bobby sobered. "Well, she's been gone _years_ now and… And I ain't keeled over yet."

The tension in Dean's body relaxed a little, ears drooping to the side rather than pointing back. He still didn't look at Bobby, but he knew his godfather wouldn't have brought up _her_ unless the man felt it was important, and that alone deserved the respect of actually listening to what he had to say.

"But it _does_ affect you," Bobby continued, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Evidently, he didn't want to have this conversation either. "It affects me. I _know_ it affects that knuckleheaded sire of yours, and like him, you've got too much Alpha blood in ya." The irritation had begun to return in that last sentence but was softened again by a sigh. "It won't kill ya to let someone in. It doesn't make you weak. The way John is, with that temper, _that's_ weak."

Dean didn't know how to respond, understanding what Bobby was trying to convey but feeling his own irritation rising on the matter. After all, Bobby knew better than anyone—

"And I know what you've been through," Bobby said then, seeming to pick up Dean's line of thought. "I know you've had it rough, especially with being an Alpha, but you're not a green pup anymore, Dean, and they're not all like Cassie and Lydia."

Dean glanced at Bobby, unsure what his godfather expected from him, his wheezy breaths and the hum of the heater the only sounds in the quiet between them. Did he want a mate? On some level, one that he'd never admit to anyone, _of course_ he did. What Were didn't at least _secretly_ romanticize the notion of finding the other half? Sure Alphas were more known for their promiscuity, but it was in the nature of all Weres to want to pair off. But he'd experienced shit luck in the past and, yeah, it left him raw on the subject.

"Aw, _hell_, do what you want!" Bobby suddenly exploded, taking Dean's uncertain silence to mean he was angry. "I'm just sayin' to make an effort is all! The last thing I need is another John Winchester! Just give it some thought! It ain't like you have anything else to do while you recover."

With that, Bobby stomped out of the room, red-faced with embarrassment. Dean wasn't particularly upset to see him go, also moderately embarrassed and glad that fur prevented any possibility of blush from showing. He hoped Bobby never, ever brought it up again.

As if the bird and the bees talk hadn't been bad enough.

Snorting lightly, Dean dropped his head to his paws and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

><p>The return of his nose was a glorious moment, and though Dean did refrain, he felt he would've been completely justified in howling triumphantly.<p>

In actuality, he couldn't smell as well as normal and still needed to be close to a scent or odor to really get a whiff, but it was better than nothing. He had never felt as truly defenseless as he had without his greatest sense. It was an unsettling condition he hoped to never be in again. If finding a mate could guarantee him such, then he'd make plans to go and find one immediately for that reason alone.

But there was no consistent proof that mating worked in that manner. That a Were's mental state could so seriously affect his physical health was still just popular conjecture.

The cold air against Dean's skin felt soothing after being cooped up in the hot, stuffy bedroom for the past two weeks. Bobby hadn't wanted him to leave the house, stating that he still had cold-like symptoms, that he wasn't completely healed. Dean had merely scoffed and waited patiently until his godfather left on an errand before slipping outside for a leisurely stroll around the junkyard. It wasn't like he wanted to go for a jog. He wasn't _Sam_. He just needed to stretch his legs a little.

He casually wound between the piles of scrap and the stacked crushed cars, sniffing every so often to see how much he could read out of the air, although there wasn't much there to smell. Just cold rust and metal, the occasional hint of grease and—

Dean paused, confused, and took a long, deep breath through his half-clogged nose. It was so faint, but he swore he could smell something spice-like…

"Excuse me."

Dean whirled with a snarl, startled. He'd been so focused on scenting that he hadn't heard anyone approach.

There other Were jumped as well, responding to the sudden aggression by taking a quick step back. He squinted uncertainly at Dean.

"Oh," Dean huffed, relaxing at the sight of Crowley's debt collector, "It's _you_."

The Beta frowned at the way in which he was referred, expression flatly annoyed, but the upset flare in his Presence was almost nonexistent. Dean couldn't imagine why Crowley would send someone with such little ability to intimidate in order to retrieve debts.

"Bobby ain't here," he said roughly, shoving his hands in his pockets and striding past the Beta without another glance. "So take a hike."

"Do you know when he'll return?" the Beta asked, following after Dean without getting too close.

"Never. He's not coming back. He's fled the state."

"Then the authorities will need to be notified. He has an outstanding debt—"

"Listen," Dean interrupted, stopping as they came up to the back porch. He narrowed a glare on the Beta, letting his Presence pressure the man. "I don't care what kind of deal Bobby made with Crowley. He said he's paid up already _so that means_ he's paid up already. Tell Crowley to shove it up his ass, or he'll have to answer to _me_."

The Beta swallowed against the force of the intimidation but, impressively, straightened his back and looked Dean straight in the eye. "The law is on his side—"

Dean roared, slamming a clenched fist against the wall of Bobby's house, his Presence pushing against the shorter Were so powerfully that the man shrank in front of him, curling in on himself as he was quick to look away and duck his head.

"Don't _ever_ say those words to me," Dean growled, voice so quiet he'd practically whispered it.

"Stop it," the Beta murmured, shuddering, gloved hands fisting on his coat sleeves. He jerkily lifted his head, clearly having to force himself to meet Dean's fierce eyes. "_Stop_."

Dean was taken aback by the determination in the Beta's own gaze. Whatever the man lacked in Presence he made up for with sheer willpower. Dean eyed him from top to bottom, the Beta yet hidden under so many layers, and wondered how much backbone the shorter Were really had. With a dismissive scoff, Dean lowered his Presence, so quickly that it left the other gasping at the freedom from it like a drowning man after air. He glared angrily at Dean as he panted.

Dean merely rolled his eyes and turned toward the door, taking the porch stairs in two hopping steps.

"You are mistaken if you believe intimidation will prevent me from returning," the Beta said, again moving to follow Dean. "Fergus had already warned me that Mr. Singer was closely acquainted with a family of Alphas—"

"Fergus?" Dean queried, scrunching his face in confusion as he shoved open the back door. He was tempted to slam it in the Beta's face, but Bobby had told him to stay out of whatever the hell was going on and he had reluctantly agreed to respect his godfather's wishes. He sighed in agitation and, after only a brief hesitation, left the door open behind him in silent invitation.

"Fergus Crowley," the Beta supplied, pausing at the threshold, eyeing Dean suspiciously before tentatively stepping into the kitchen.

"_Fergus?_ Crowley's name is _Fergus?_" Dean stared at the man for a moment, appalled, and then threw his head back and howled with laughter.

The Beta attempted to look disapproving as he calmly closed the back door, apparently having decided that Dean wasn't going to attack him, but his lips twitched into a small smile.

"Well," he conceded, "it _is_ a rather uncommon name."

"For good reason!" Dean laughed, muttering in a stuffy chuckle, "_Fergus_, man…" He took a deep breath in order to help the chuckles subside, but stopped abruptly when he caught another trace of spices. He tried to sniff again but it was too faint and his nose still a little too clogged for him to pinpoint it. After a quick glance at the Beta, who was curiously watching him, he opened the refrigerator to grab a beer, impolitely not offering any to his _guest_. "I don't know when Bobby's coming back."

The little smile dropped, the Beta recognizing that they were back to bare civility. "I can wait."

Dean scowled and popped the top on his beer, taking a long drink as he again eyed the other Were. Catching the look, the Beta straightened defiantly, expression questioning.

"You're not how I imagined Crowley's goons," Dean explained mockingly. "A bit _scrawny_."

"That's because I am _not_ a _goon_," the Beta sniffed, offended. "Fergus and I simply have an agreement—"

"You made a deal with him," Dean said in dawning understanding.

"An _agreement_," the Beta corrected sternly, "in which we mutually benefit."

"Oh, so, he'll scratch your back if you scratch his, huh? That it?"

The other Were's cheeks reddened and he was quick to look elsewhere in the kitchen.

"There will be _no_ scratching of backs," he assured in a mumble.

Dean smirked, amused in spite of himself.

"Yeah, well, I don't know when Bobby'll be home," he repeated, pushing away from the counter and moving to leave. "If you're so desperate to talk to him, you can wait here, but stay the hell outta my way."

"That was already the plan, as I do not wish to share in whatever is ailing you," the Beta stiffly responded, tugging at his scarf even as he appeared uncertain at being left alone in a strange house.

"Sure, whatever," Dean snorted, exiting the kitchen with beer still in hand and heading for the stairs. He had just placed his foot on the first step when he smelled it.

Sweet spiciness that made his vision swim for reasons other than sickness, the scent easily distinguished even though he could barely smell anything else. It hit him so unexpectedly that he staggered into the banister, beer bottle slipping from between his fingers and breaking in two as it crashed to floor.

That smell—_fuck_, he _knew_ that smell!

Dean spun around in time to see the other Were step into the hallway, expression confused and curious about the noise. Gone was his scarf and top outer layer, his inner coat unzipped, freeing his scent. Dean's eyes almost rolled back.

It was coming from him—it was _fucking coming from him!_

Their gazes locked and the other Were inhaled sharply, his own pupils blowing wide as he caught Dean's flaring scent in turn, and he stepped back in such a hurry that he banged into the doorframe.

"Don't," he choked, scurrying backwards into the kitchen as Dean suddenly strode forward, his legs wobbling under him as another wave of Dean's scent hit him. "_Don't_. I've only just finished my—"

"_You!_" Dean growled, catching him by the shoulder when he tried to scramble away. He yelped as Dean yanked him back around, clawed hands fisting in the fluff of his coat to hold him still. Dean tugged him closer and, in a spontaneous act of incredible vulgarity, buried his face in the guy's neck, breathing in the scent there.

Rather than shriek in offense at such an overly familiar behavior, such utter rudeness between strangers, the shorter Were instead moaned and pressed against Dean, tilting his head to the side in acquiescence and providing better access. Dean let go with one hand to wrap the arm around him, pulling them flush together, also moaning as he lost himself in the intoxicating scent. There was a lingering of cinnamon-like spice to it that made Dean shiver down to his toes.

_I've only just finished my—_

_Heat_, Dean mentally finished for him, licking at him, nipping with a dominating growl, wanting to smell _more_, and hearing the other Were whimper compliantly, offering, begging…

_Stop_, that same voice had commanded, earlier, minutes before, when they were standing outside.

_Don't_, he had said, only seconds ago.

"Fuck!" Dean gasped, suddenly shoving away from the shorter Were with a snarl. His head spun, his inner wolf howling furiously for him to continue, to _take_, _claim_. He stumbled into the kitchen wall, clawing at it to stay upright, trying his best to ignore the moaning gasps behind him, the scenting call for him to return.

But then the inviting scenting abruptly stopped, the other Were forcing back his own innate behavior, fighting his own hormonal draw, and moving quickly to the other side of the kitchen so that the table was a weak protection between them.

Dean viciously glared over his shoulder at the guy, clinging to the wall to keep himself from flying across the room.

"You—" he huffed, panting for air. "_You!_"

The Were licked his lips, unconsciously swooning a little under the force of Dean's dominant aggression.

Dean scowled, disgusted.

"You— _You're a_ _fucking Omega!_"


End file.
